


Bent

by freddieofhearts



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, F/M, Hurt/No Comfort, Microaggressions, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slurs, compulsory heterosexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:03:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19239784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddieofhearts/pseuds/freddieofhearts
Summary: Arguing over lyrics is par for the course.





	Bent

**Author's Note:**

> CN: there are slurs in this piece; they are not author endorsed, but merely intended as part of a plausible period texture.

*

Brian’s frowning. “I mean, it’s brilliant – it’s clever as hell – but ‘that way inclined’? I’ll never get another respectable job.” He shakes his head dolefully.

“What makes you think you’ll need one, darling,” Freddie’s voice is soft, little more than a purr. He’s collected into a knot of delicate limbs, tidy in Roger’s lap at the other end of the sofa. Brian looks at them, at both of them: neither is really looking back at him. 

“I like it,” says John Deacon from the rug. He’s not uncomfortable there. It’s not a lesser position. He has appropriated four cushions to prop up the more sharp-boned bits of himself, and he has an excellent view of Freddie and Roger pretending they’re making an economical use of space, rather than simply cuddling up for pleasure. “I think you might have a bit of a talent for this, you know, Freddie.”

Freddie’s bare, thin-toed foot swings out from the sofa as if to give him a reproachful prod, but it’s no use. He can’t reach, so he giggles and honourably retreats. _Had_ he been able to reach, he would have let Deaky know the folly of speaking to his elders and betters like that. What he would have done folds seamlessly into what he did do, in Freddie’s mind, and he smiles, truthfully only to himself – but his face is still upturned to Roger’s, and Roger catches the megawatt gleam of the smile, which is shy and brief and brighter than even Freddie could possibly capture in a turn of phrase.

“Careful, flower,” he says, winking at Freddie. “You want to watch who you try that out on.” 

Brian says, “I’m serious. Look, I don’t mean – I do like it, Freddie, it’s one of your best. But we already have the name, don’t we? If things take a turn for the worse – what if I end up teaching again?” He sounds fretful. Not quite as if the black mood is on him, for when it is he scarcely speaks at all, but as if it’s somewhere on the horizon: time for bad weather warnings. Time to close up the windows. 

“Nobody will give me a job, ever,” he repeats, “If they think I’m – you know –” His voice trails off. In another conversation, really, if Freddie wasn’t right there, he’d do the ordinary thing and either just say _ponce_ , or hold up his wrist for a second and let it droop. 

And he’s not lying, for God’s sake. For as many poofs as there are schoolmastering away in peaceful obscurity, no headman wants someone who goes about in a band that might as well be called ‘Pansy’ – singing songs about being a queer, no less! – teaching elementary mathematics to their ruddy-cheeked third formers. Of course he doesn’t want to go back to that, but he’s a realistic person. Without him and Deaky to plan for the worst and keep the books respectively, god knows what would happen to Roger and Freddie. 

Roger feels that Freddie, who five minutes ago was relaxed and lazy as a cat in his arms, has gone tense all over. He runs a hand down his spine, feeling prominent knobs of bone, and glares at Brian over the top of Freddie’s head. “Put a sock in it, can’t you,” he says. 

Brian sighs. He sounds exasperated, like an adult dropped into a room full of freshers. 

“Tea?” John says. “I could be persuaded to put the kettle on. If someone asks me nicely. Or you could pay me, of course.” 

“My dear,” says Freddie softly, “If only I had a bare thruppence to keep the wolf from the door, let alone to pay for my own personal tea-maker – what luxury –”

“Caviar,” puts in Roger, “And some of that Parisian perfume you’re so fond of? I’m not sure the wolf has _quite_ got his claws into you, yet.” 

“You can’t blame me for being an _enfant terrible_. We’re born, not made.” Freddie glances over his shoulder at Brian. It’s only the faintest of innuendos. Nothing cruel, nothing that need even cut through the peace of the cold London afternoon. 

“I wasn’t insinuating anything,” Brian says coldly. He didn’t mean to hurt Freddie. He never has. The charade Freddie’s been spinning out has never been necessary. Brian is sure, is marrow-certain, that none of them – not even John Deacon with his odd air of purity, and certainly not Roger, certainly not Brian – gives a damn about what Freddie still half hides, or thinks he does. 

“What would you be,” Freddie breathes, slipping off Roger’s lap into the space between them. He’s light as a girl, and he does smell of scent; he always does, he always has. Brian has often wanted to ask him, why on earth do you bother to pretend? You of all people? To us, of all people?

Freddie’s hand slides up Brian’s neck, the chilly narrow fingers running quickly through his hair, and then the same cold hand drops to his shirt collar, cups the nape of his neck. Brian feels glossy nail varnish glance against his skin as Freddie touches him – but it’s only for a moment, a moment – and then the hand is gone. 

Freddie puts his head on Brian’s shoulder and murmurs, “It’s only a song, darling. Remember, I have a girlfriend. Mary will be cross if you forget about her–!” He’s nestling and nuzzling close, all his words and actions a frenzy of contradiction. Very reluctantly, feeling a strange guilt in his throat, Brian laughs.

He pats Freddie’s bony shoulder and says, “Sorry. Sorry, Maestro. I’ll send her twelve dozen white roses when my ship comes in, will that satisfy you?” 

“No,” Freddie says. “I want you to send them to me. But I prefer red.” He giggles against Brian’s shirt, his breath short and catchy. 

“It’s a deal,” Brian says. “Roses for Mr Mercury. I won’t forget.” 

Freddie’s eyes are stinging and he thinks, they’ve been smoking in here far too much. I wish it wasn’t so foggy outside, such a horrid day. He closes his eyes against what hurts there. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi on Tumblr: I’m @freddieofhearts.


End file.
